“Alas! she never told us.”
Gaston’s eyes flashed with indignation. He thought that perhaps Valentine had been glad to get rid of him.
“She did not tell you?” he exclaimed. “Did she have the cruelty to let you mourn my death? to let my old father die of a broken heart? Ah, she must have been very fearful of what the world says. She sacrificed me, then, for the sake of her reputation.”
“But why did you not write to us?” asked Louis.
“I did write as soon as I had an opportunity; and Lafourcade wrote back, saying that my father was dead, and that you had left the country.”
“I left Clameran because I believed you to be dead.”
After a long silence, Gaston arose, and walked up and down the room as if to shake off a feeling of sadness; then he said, cheerfully:
“Well, it is of no use to mourn over the past. All the memories in the world, good or bad, are not worth one slender hope for the future; and thank God, we have a bright future before us. Let us bury the past, and enjoy life together.”
Louis was silent. His footing was not sure enough to risk any questions.
“But here I have been talking incessantly for an hour,” said Gaston, “and I dare say that you have not dined.”